


vvoodvale

by motherofrevels



Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — nitrene [1]
Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Brother/Brother Incest, Drug Use, Father/Son Incest, Heroin, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28688754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels
Summary: For Wilden Lightfoot, the career opportunity of a lifetime blossoms into limitless devotion.CONTENT WARNING: Please consider reading the applied tags carefully.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot/Ian Lightfoot, Ian Lightfoot/Original Male Character(s), Ian Lightfoot/Wilden Lightfoot
Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — nitrene [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2102829
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. Chemtrails Over the Country Club

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction containing potentially triggering content, potentially involving both parental and sibling incest. If this bothers you in any way, please feel free to check out some of the other, far more amazing works of fiction by some of the other, far more talented writers here on Archive of Our Own. Thank-you!

“ _Typically,_ we wouldn’t accept anyone with such a _brief_ resume,” a sharply dressed Minotaur apprised, lounging in his seat from behind the high-gloss luxuriance of an amaranth desk. “ _However_ , this is the longest I’ve spent in a private conference with anyone in _years_ ,” he conceded, elevating a broad hand to pluck the oblique spectacles from the apex of his flaxen muzzle. “You’ve got a lot of _pep_ , Lightfoot. A lot of _charisma_ for a _βeta_ . . . We need _more_ of that around here.”

With tentative mirth, the High Elf bolstered hair-dusted knuckles to paw at the nape of his freshly groomed neck; repressing his anxiousness to present a timorous grin.

“Mr. Aux-Gernons—”

“ _Please!_ Call me _Rion_ ,” the hybrid barked, timbre swelling to drench the sunlit corners of his lavish suite. “No need to be so _formal_.”

Another chuckle, another swallow, another faintly misaligned smile.

“ _Rion_ , then—I really appreciated your time today, sir. And I _apologize_ for all the rudimentary questions—”

“ _Nonsense!_ ” guffawed the behemoth, hoisting himself into a stand to amble around his desk. “As headmaster, it’s my _duty_ to welcome _each_ and _every_ _one_ of my educators,” he assured—a shift in his cadence—tendering his newly established employee a welcoming caress along the breadth of his shoulders, shepherding him toward the cathedralic threshold.

“Oh, and _Wil?_ ” began the ivory-crowned goliath, a single eye of mellow umber assessing the geometry of his underling’s lofty form.

The slighter man held his tongue, observing as his bovine elder stooped to unlatch the lacquered gateway, granting him an exit.

“I heard a _rumor_ through the grapevine, that you have yet to put down any roots here in town,” the Minotaur crooned, raising obsidian claws to shelter his lips as though concealing something clandestine. “If those rumors are _true_ , then where have you been resting your _head_ , my handsome friend?”

At the titan's commendation, floridity befell the younger man.

“W- _Well_ . . . There’s this quaint little motel on the corner of _Saint Hildegard_ and—”

“ _Out of the question._ Not another _word_ ,” the colossus grumbled, a grimace blemishing his gilded features. “Mr. Lightfoot, I _implore_ you: I could have a poolside bungalow ready at your convenience by sundown at the Chateau Merveille . . . I simply _cannot_ stand idly by and watch a man of your ability _consorting_ with the enemy—a _Motel Nyx_ , no less,” the giant pressed, circumnavigating satire and indignation.

Though his dual exposition of character brought a genuine smile to his subordinate's barbate lips, notwithstanding his initial disquiet.

“ _Mr. Aux_ —erm— _Rion_ ,” the slighter man rectified, “I’m _sorry_ , but; I could _never_ afford to stay at a place like that—”

“ _Bah!_ ” his elder opposed, a flourish of his bronzed wrist signifying his dismissal. “Don’t play _coy_ with me, Wilden Lightfoot. Everyone knows the Merveille has seen better days,” the hybrid chuckled, proffering a lighthearted nudge. “ _Besides_ ,” he resumed, realigning his hand alongside his muzzle, “This _academy_ isn’t the _only_ piece of real estate in my possession, my good man . . . The _Merveille_ belongs to _me_.”

Upon his conclusion, the bovine administrator presented an impertinent wink, withdrawing his mass from the doorway to grant Wilden an exit; the neophyte educator ostensibly drawn between reticence and deliberation.

“Only if you’re _sure_ it wouldn’t be an _imposition_ —”

“Not in the _slightest!_ I’ll make the arrangements myself! Keep your phone handy.”

With this, his monocled conversant extended a handshake, formalities exchanged as he took his leave; polished footfalls resonating along glistering marble—

“Oh, and _Lightfoot?_ ” his superior beckoned, coaxing his attention back toward the embroidered doorsill.

“ _Sir?_ ” he queried, a furrow threading through his unkempt brows.

“Don’t forget: We’re holding orientation bright and early Monday morning at the Country Club . . . _Welcome to Woodvale_.”

**• • •**

Hours after, a Midasian gaze flitted about the mid-century décor of their bearer’s designated lodging, embellished by an emblematic quirk of a feathered brow. Despite his employer’s audacious claims about the Chateau’s impending ruin, Wilden deemed the suite to be _tenaciously_ opulent; every surface polished to a glisten, and every linen starched and steamed.

He found his luggage patiently awaiting him in the living area, the hotel staff having graciously assisted in its arrival; artfully arranging it by shape and color.

“ _Huh_ ,” he voiced, a smirk tugging at the corners of his bearded lips as he inspected the remainder of his lush surroundings, eventually coming to reach the lucent threshold leading out into the garden—

And there, along the water’s edge, a willowy figure lounged alone; one hand cradling a novel, and the other gliding through bright blue ripples.

The drifter found himself entranced, laboring for an explanation behind the poolside youth’s incursion.

He wondered, he waited, he watched—gilded ivy studying the contours of his intruder’s diaphanous physique—until at last he summoned the valor to engage them.

With a delicate glide, the gateway was divided; immediately luring his uninvited guest’s attention.

“O- ** _Oh_** _!_ Hel— _Hello!_ ” the stripling squeaked, clambering to a tremulous stand. “I-I-I’m _really_ sorry! Bungalow Four doesn’t get _used_ that often—Y’know, nobody _died_ here, so it’s just—Not that _interesting_ , I guess. W- _Whatever!_ **Sorry** , man. I-I’m gonna head out—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Wilden beamed, elevating faintly coarsened palms in a demonstration of surrender. “ _It’s_ . . . It’s _quite_ alright. I just got here _myself_ ,” he assured, noting an abrupt tranquility adorning his junior’s carriage. “Are you a member of _staff?_ ”

A laugh, crystalline and pure, conjured a crimson flush to the monocled educator’s countenance.

“M- _Me?!_ **No**!” chirped the decorous youth, revealing the step in his teeth as he toyed with the dilapidated binding of his literature. “ _No_ , my—It’s my _brother_. He did this tattoo for the _manager_ , right? So they’re like, _friends_ now, or . . . or _something_ —A-A- _Anyway_ , his _band_ hangs out here sometimes, too. And they—Sometimes _I_ get to tag along, so the staff just kinda _knows_ me? So I . . . I just use the empty suites to study when I can. O-Or practice magic, or— _Y’know_. Just . . . _hang_.”

“ _Magic?_ ” Wilden queried, arching and incredulous brow. “You practice magic? Are you . . . into _witchcraft_ , or—?”

“ **Yeah**! Well— _Yeah_ , sorta,” his acquaintance chimed, suppressing a grimace as he gnawed the fullness of his lower lip. “It’s just. . . It’s something _Barley_ —M-My—My _brother_ and I—We sort of do it _together?_ . . . M- ** _Magic_** _!_ We do _magic_ , together. Not— _y’know_ —cause that would be . . . ” the magus trailed, childlike visage marred by discontent. “Y’know _what?_ I-I’m just . . . Gonna go _die_ now. S-So—G’bye—!”

“ _Woah, woah, woah,_ ” Wilden chuckled, tallying the fledgling’s inundation on calloused fingers. “So you’re brother’s in a _band_ —”

“ _Check!_ ”

“And he’s a . . . _tattoo_ artist?”

“ _Apprentice!_ Check!”

“ _Alright_ . . . And you’re a witch.”

“Well, a _wizard_ —But that _also_ checks!”

“And you come here to practice _magic_ —”

“ _Check!_ ”

“And _study_ , right? So . . . You must be a _student_ somewhere?” the elder inquired, extending his thumb to present a five-fingered splay to the trespasser.

“ _Checkmate!_ . . . Okay, _bye!_ ” the younger peeped, awarding the educator a high-five into his open palm, bypassing him to scamper beyond the limpid threshold.

“ ** _Hey_** _!_ ” Wilden barked, whiskered lips pursing as he shadowed his intruder. “That’s _it?_ That’s all I _get?_ ” he groused, observing as the sun-kissed juvenile skittered through his flat. “Where are you _enrolled?_ Do you need a _ride?_ What do I even—”

A slam, pursued by stillness.

“ _Call_ you . . .”


	2. VVhite Hot Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piercing through scarring and ink-laden flesh, an injection of nebulous venom.

Flourished ears piqued at the roar of a laboring engine, stale oil and corroded steel grinding to a halt beyond the rusted windows of a modest camper. Though guiltless eyes held steadfast about the scattered pages of their bearer’s after-school assignment, trepidation blossoming at the entrance of a lumbering figure, reported by a rasp of their oxidized threshold.

Moments passed in vexatious silence; eyes of Midisian gold measuring the petite scholar from his place within a tangle discordant bedding.

“ _Salutations_ , my liege!” bellowed the newcomer, a roguish grin upon unshaven lips. “Oh, _hey_ . . _._ That’s my _shirt_ ,” he declared, gaze drifting along the waiflike contours of his sibling’s body. “Looks better on _you_ than it does on _me_.”

Succeeding a bout of internalized deliberation, fawn-like eyes of hallowed moonstone raised to assess their hulking elder.

“ _Hey_ , Barley,” smiled the ingenue, dappled features engulfed by floridity as he metabolized his brother’s commendation. “How was _practice?_ D-Did you have dinner with _the guys_ already?”

Sanguine valentines trailed along the divergent patterns etched into his elder’s skin—testaments to dependencies both past and present.

“ _Meh_ ,” Barley parried, shrugging a medley of studio equipment from the strength of his shoulders, “Not exactly what I’m cravin’ at the moment.”

Though the fledgling merely nodded his response, reticence lighting his blameless visage.

“W-Well, maybe _this’ll_ change your mind,” rang the magus, incisors revealed as he slid from the bed with a temperate smile. “Jenny saved us some food from the afternoon rush at the Manticore’s Tavern . . . A-And it’s _actually_ —like— _pretty fresh_? . . . She said?”

He paused for a shrug and a hesitant giggle.

“All we gotta _do?_ Is nuke it in the mic, _et voilà_ ,” he announced, a flourish of his willowy arms accentuating his proclamation.

Pillars of mercy and resilient might entwined before the breadth of the philistine’s chest, embellished by a quirk of his unkempt brows.

“ _Or_ ,” the greater proposed, admiring his junior’s decorous frame as he stooped to draw their evening meal from his monochrome satchel, “You could do me a _favor_ instead.”

A visible grimace, sour and sweet.

“ _Barley_ ,” the younger began with a frangible whinge, “I-I don’t _wanna_ help you do that stuff, man . . . You said you were working on switching to—”

“Doesn’t _matter_. You **owe** me. We had a _deal_ —You help me with my meds, and I scent you for school.”

“B-But you’re not taking _medicine_ ,” the sorcerer quipped, resting their carryout onto the countertop. “Y-You’re just _chasing the dragon_ —”

“I _don’t_ need a **_lecture_** _!_ ” barked the musician, unwinding his arms for a contemptuous gesture.

But as Iandore flinched—presenting a yelp—his elder abated his passion.

“ _Look_ ,” came a rumble of luminous baritone, “We’ve been _over_ this, little bro . . . I need you to _help_ me. My hands are too _shaky_ to handle the doses.”

As he spoke, he placated; extending broad palms to caress the enchanter.

“You don’t think I’d _love_ to just—Do it _myself?_ . . . If I _could_ , then I _would_. But you **know** that I **can’t**.”

A shade of tranquility settled between them, unrefined dominance shrouding the slighter.

“ _So?_ ” Barley tried, thumbing along the delicacy of his sibling’s shoulders. “Gonna _help_ me, or not?”

Shadowing a tentative nod of assent, the summoner found himself encircled by vigor.

“ _Thanks_ , buddy. I _mean_ it . . . And don’t worry—I’ll scent you before we get started—”

“A-A- _Actually_ ,” interjected the mage, a trepidant smile upon sun-speckled lips, “I _think_ you’re due for a fresh coat of _paint_ . . . I-I noticed it _earlier_.”

“ _Huh?_ A _paintjob?_ ” inquired the elder, gaze descending to study his nails. “ **Ah** . . . So I _am_ ,” he affirmed with a scoff, releasing the wizard in kind. “I’ll take care of it _later_ —”

“ ** _I_** could do it!” chirped the sylphlike magician, a gleam in his baby-doll eyes. “I-I _really_ don’t mind! And _besides_ , after you take your meds, you always stay pretty still . . . That’s like, _perfect_ for painting your nails.”

Barley chuckled, submitting a shake of his unctuous head.

“Well, _alright_. Suit _yourself_ . . . But you can’t make fun of me if I get a little _weird_.”

“ _Sorry_ , dude. But, _no dice_ ,” contested the alchemist, persuading his elder onto the mattress. “Half the magic is _teasing_ you . . . Y’know what I _mean?_ ”

With this, the younger climbed to a stand upon their jumble of bedding; sifting through the organized chaos of an overhead compartment, lissome hips steadied by the hands of his elder.

“Looks like the only color _left_ is this creepy dark red—”

“ _Orc’s Blood_ , they call it.”

“S- _Sure,_ man. _Whatever_ ,” tittered the mage, palming the varnish and seizing a sheer-plastic pouch. “Guess you’re out of the _black_ , huh?” he pined with a query, stooping before his boisterous elder. “I’ll ask Sadie to grab us some more _tomorrow_ . . . Don’t really think _Mrs. Brushthorn_ would notice.”

“Not as far as _you_ know, at least” Barley reasoned, eying the fledgling’s lucent parcel. “Running low on _syringes_ , too,” he acknowledged, heaving a piquant sigh. “Does dear ol’ _Mrs. Brushthorn_ have any of _those?_ ”

Though his jest went unheeded, Ian placing the contents just outside of his reach.

“So—O- _Okay_ . . . Do your thing.”

And in a sequence of effortless motions, the bard coaxed the ingenue into his lap; svelte legs draping around the brawn of a sturdy core.

“Wanna take off _my shirt_ there, little lord?” quipped the greater, presenting a lightly misaligned grin.

With a nod of consensus, the spellcaster lifted the garment from his nymphlike frame—echoes of bitemarks and bruises unveiled, each reciting a criminal passion. Barley winced in response, baring treacherous canines; gilded gaze tracing the plains of flushed silk.

“I don’t _care_ if he’s slow, I’m gonna knock his _fuckin’_ teeth down his neck if he keeps markin’ over me—”

“B _-Barley!_ ” the slighter reproached, childlike innocence marred by a glower. “That’s _fucked up_ , man! That’s nothing to _joke_ about—!”

“Who said I was _joking?!_ I mean, just _look_ at these crooked-ass claims! These are _permanent_ , Ian! And _you’re_ still a _virgin!_ The kid’s fuckin’ _trash,_ dude! I dunno why you _like_ him so much—!”

“ _Barley, **stop** it!_”

A moment of silence suspended the storm.

“Y-You’re _just_ —You don’t have to be _jealous_ —”

“ _Who’s **jealous**_ —?!”

“ ** _Listen_** _to me!_ ” the magus contested, disregarding his elder’s menacing rumble, “He gets _enough_ from his **parents** , Barley. Give him a _chance_ . . . _He’s_ —Tanner’s _great_. Y-You don’t even **know** him yet.”

Thus, a mitigation of shambling rage.

“ _Just_ . . . Just _scent_ me, okay? The sooner we get this _over_ with, the sooner we can move on to the _fun stuff._ ”

“Whatever,” snarled the artist, subduing his anger. “Hold _onto_ me,” he added next, pouring over the leaflets of homework beyond his diaphanous muse.

Enmeshing his neck with the crook of his brother’s, Barley marshaled ephemeral poise; a pungent aroma dressing the air as he grazed placid shoulders with musk and bristle, branding Iandore as his own. He permitted himself to linger, morality waning as remembrance conceded to billowing fervor. His temperature elevated, gaze adumbrating as he respired both panic and pleasure.

And as much as he loathed it, the scent was intoxicating, provoking compulsions to dominate—

“That’s _enough_ ,” Ian whimpered, scarlet kissing his countenance, “W-We’re both getting carried away.”

With a grunt of contention, his elder withdrew; pupils blown with rapacious intent.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Barley grumbled, withdrawing his nearness, “Yeah I _am_.”

Notwithstanding their instincts, they managed a mutual chuckle.

“I-It’s alright,” smiled the conjurer, stilling his nerves, “We _got_ this . . . We know what to do.”

A reciprocal nod marked a shift in position, the alchemist handling the bag of syringes.

“Are these still any _good?_ They look kinda _muddy_ —”

“Can’t _help_ it. We’ve _got_ what we’ve _got_.”

At the bandit’s assertion, a teeter of curls; graced by the halo of eventide.

“I-I _dunno_ , man. Just _look_ at these—”

“ **Ian** —for _fuck’s_ sake—We _don’t_ have a **_choice_** _!_ ” thundered the elder, tearing the pouch from his sibling’s grasp. “Did you _forget_ about **_last_** _time?_ If I _don’t_ —”

“I-I-I **_know_** . . . I remember,” the sorcerer mumbled, doe-eyes assessing their elder. “I-I just—I _dunno_ , Bar . . . These things look _expired_ —”

“I’m an _αlpha_ , Iandore . . . My body can _handle_ it,” the composer assured, pouring the contents from his transparent parcel. “Now _c’mon_. Help me _out_ , bro . . . I’m startin’ to _lose_ it.”

Succeeding his confession, he offered the sage a series of objects: alcohol swabs, a loaded syringe, and a coil of neon ribbon.

Ian wasted little time commencing his ritual; Tearing open one packet, then applying another, next unraveling their makeshift tourniquet . . . As he fastened the binding—secured by an ingenuous bow—the stripling searched for the swell of a vein amongst etchings of nacreous armor.

“O- _Okay_ . . . Deep breath _in_ ,” Ian soothed as he steadied his needle, “And _out_ —”

With this, he administered Barley’s relief. Piercing through scarring and ink-laden flesh, an injection of nebulous venom. And unbinding the lambency of his tourniquet, a rush of liquid benevolence.

Then at last, all was peaceful.

Not a light, not a sound.

As the greater ascended through æther and velvet, his body reclined against the breadth of a wood-paneled wall. Though the slighter was keen to simply observe him, musing the depths of his brother’s chimerical pleasure.

“What’s it _like?_ ” came Ian’s muted query; the fullness of a lower lip drawn between teeth.

Barley quirked an unmanaged brow, searching his junior’s youthful face for any indication of his meaning.

“Come again?” he replied, offering a mellow smile in attempted reassurance. Though it remained unseen; valentines shadowing the descent of their sky’s greatest star.

“ _Heroin_ ,” the conjurer pressed, fawn-like eyes meeting his brother’s.

And then came a lull—dressed in crashing waves and the song of seabirds—until at last the elder lent his resonance.

“It feels like _forever_ ,” he mused, gaze gingerly studying his sibling’s as he squeezed the hand intertwined with his own.

“Like a _white hot forever_.”


	3. cloud$

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were still many things Barley questioned about life.

Drifting down a sequence of resonating hallways, eyes of molten flax stabilized upon their destination. It was always the last set of rooms on the left, employed from their introductory sessions.

He adjusted the weight of his instrument along the etch-laden brawn of his shoulder, extending the breadth of his varnished grip to allow himself into the studio.

Glistering alto graced his ears: something youthful and androgenous, ephemerally tender.

The voice of a man whose existence challenged all that he knew of timespace and the cosmos—

“Well look who it is!” rang a voice through the chaos, its origin shambling up to the newcomer. “Man, you’re _never_ on time! Did you pick up that new _Quests of Yore_ expansion?”

The maverick offered a shake of his unctuous head, ears undulating from the weight of his plugs.

“ _No_ Shrub,” Barley groused, bypassing his companion, “I was— _hangin’_ with someone . . . What _song_ are we doing?”

The lumbering Troll quirked an unruly brow, chapped lips graced by a mischievous grin.

“And just who _was_ this ‘someone’?” he pondered aloud, bellowing over the roar of distortion.

“Hey, _Sundra_ ,” Barley called, securing his bandmate’s insouciance, “What _song_ is this? . . . Somethin’ _new?_ I don’t _recognize_ it.”

The Cyclops narrowed her malachite gaze, shaking her head as she labored for clarity.

“I can’t _hear_ you, Barley,” she tossed with a shrug, “You gonna jump _in_ or not?”

The broader man grumbled, stooping to unload his secondhand instrument.

“ _So?_ Who _was_ this girl, man?” Shrub echoed beside him, umber eyes catching his comrade’s disquiet. “You feelin’ _okay?_ You seem awfully _tense_ —”

“ **Shrub**! Merlin’s _beard!_ Just—Gimme a _minute_. I’ve had a long day . . . Can you lay off the _questions?_ ”

As his grievance concluded, so did the music; gilded gaze flitting to study his vocalist.

A willowy frame fluctuated in restlessness, silken hair cascading from behind flourished ears . . .

The nacreous memory of their first acquaintance was still fresh in the lofty artist’s mind: The sight of an all-too-familiar stranger, breathing new life into archaic lungs—hands on the microphone, serenading in Qenya, far too enchanting for inglorious eyes—

“ _Hey,_ Bar,” they chimed, embellished by a bewitching smile, “Looks like you could use a _drink_ , dude . . . Everything _cool?_ ”

Barley snapped to attention, bounding to a stand as he balanced his proverbial axe.

“Uh— _Hi_ ,” hailed the philistine, clearing his throat, “Nah, I’m good, man—But _thank-you_. Just one of those _days_.”

Though the stripling assessed him, conceding to intrigue; the chanteuse ambling up to the rogue.

“ _‘Nah, I’m good, man,’_ says he . . . You could use a _bath_ , Tiger. I can still smell the pussy you munched on for lunch—”

“ _Chantar’s Talon_ , Cadeau,” Barley flushed with a grimace.

“ _What?_ It’s **funny** . . . You _like_ it,” the slighter fey smiled, incisors unveiled as he twirled on a heel. “Why so late to the party? I’ve gotta _bounce_ soon. Got a _casting_ tonight,” he apprised with a wink.

But the Quest Master noted the death in his eyes; something lightless and hollow, abyssal and cruel.

“I’ll be earlier _next_ time,” the greater man pledged, anxiously palming his ragged guitar. “Need a ride to your— _thing?_ I-I just filled up my _tank_ —”

“ _Nah_. I’m okay . . . _Baby brother_ needs practice,” Cadeau informed with a chuckle, revolving to glide before his microphone. “ ** _Okay_** , so . . . We _good?_ ” he questioned blithely, elevating his thumb in a show of assent.

With reciprocal nods, they launched into their next set; commencing with something the gamer recognized.

There were still many things Barley questioned about life.

Cadeau and his brother?

Only stars amongst midnight _._

**• • •**

As the evening dwindled to an indolent hum, the delicate vocalist took to the night. Though his brother held reservations about his profession, he never contested his elder’s lifestyle.

And now, upon a spread of luxuriant bedding; the diaphanous youth lounged alongside his patron.

“ _Sing_ me something, my angel,” breathed illustrious baritone, bovine lips drawing into a smile.

“You should come to my _shows_ if you want me to sing for you,” admonished the youth, eying the embers his senior’s cigar. “My voice is already worn out from practice.”

Though the Minotaur chuckled, awarding a shake of his ivory head.

“You _know_ , it’s bad _breeding_ to refute a king’s wishes,” he quipped with a lengthy drag of his poison, respiring clouds over his junior. “And you’re still taking _clients_ . . . I can smell them _all over_ you—”

“You’re not a _king_ anymore _,_ dude. You eloped with a _commoner_ . . . You’re just a dirty old man, now. Like the _rest_ of them,” the younger disputed, pursing dappled lips. “And I’ll _fuck_ who I _want_ to. You’re not my _Dad_.”

“Well, I _could_ be,” the nobleman countered in-jest, leaning to snuff his cigar into crystal. “If you’d only allow me the _privilege_ of—”

“ _Owning_ me—?”

“Adding you to my _collection_ ,” the greater concluded, adjusting the weight of his artisan eyepatch. “Imagine— _if you will_ —a world where everything that you desire, is _well_ within your grasp—”

“Spare me the _drama_ ,” Cadeau groused with a roll of valentine eyes, bolstering himself upon the edge of his elbow. “I’m not gonna _live_ in some _dollhouse_ and let your _country club_ friends dump their loads in my guts—”

“I-I would _never_ let them touch you! You’re _mine!_ You’re for _me_ —!”

“ ** _Asterion_** _!_ ” blustered the waiflike musician, glowering into humble obsidian. “ **Just** —Just _drop it_ , okay? . . . I’m _too old_ for you _anyway_.”

With this, the imperial rounded his rightmost eye, adjusting the monocle seated before it.

“Too _old?_ ” he inquired, distress marring his timbre, “Little Lamb, you’re only a _boy_ —”

“And when I’m _not?_ . . . When I’m _older?_ **Then** what? I get thrown to the _Lycans_ —?”

“ _Heavens_ no—!”

“ ** _Look_** . . . Let’s just keep doing our _thing_ ,” Cadeau advocated, arching an ample brow. “I don’t _belong_ to **anyone** . . . Not even _you_ —A-And I haven’t for _ages_ . . . I _like_ it that way.”

The patrician’s muse extended his touch, lissome palms gracing the breadth of bronzed fingers . . . And then came a silence, heady and sweet; diffidence maiming Asterion’s visage.

“You still haven’t _told_ me what . . . happened to your _eye_.”

The ivory-crowned dandy relinquished a breath, reaching to discard his crescent monocle.

“It was a _long time_ ago . . . Nearing _forty years_ , now,” the hybrid recalled as he measured his audience, pleasure flooding his chest as the nymphet beheld him. “I wasn’t _myself_ at the time, you see . . . The full moons were _perigean_ , and the _madness_ had taken me . . . A _girl_ that I fancied—not much younger than _you_ —slipped away to _relieve_ herself at a homecoming party.”

He paused with a shiver, assessing his junior before recommencing:

“I’m not _proud_ of what I did . . . Not proud in the _slightest_ —”

“It’s _okay_ ,” soothed Cadeau, fingers cradling his elder’s, “I’m just _listening_ to you . . . I’m not here to _judge_.”

And the bovine aristocrat tendered a smile; something earnest and smitten, conveying his ardor.

“I-I followed her into the restroom that night . . . I was _wrought_ with desire. I wanted her _madly_ . . . She _struggled_ —as much as _anyone_ should—she fought the good fight . . . I _admire_ her for it.”

In recounting the memory, his reticence billowed.

“She _ran_ , and I _caught_ her—But _shattered_ a mirror,” he winced as he ruminated, conjuring details. “I . . . I snuck my hand under her little white dress . . . She _begged_ me to stop—But I couldn’t _control_ myself . . . The next thing I knew, there was _pain_ —u- _unbearable_ —but less than I rightly _deserved_ , no doubt.”

As his story concluded, he furrowed his brows, glancing to gauge his companion’s revulsion . . .

Though only compassion had blossomed therein; reflected in pools of faultless vermillion.

“Did you ever get the chance to _apologize_ , at least?” inquired the ingenue, lingering closer.

But his patron provided a shake of his head, withholding his muse’s happy ending.

“It was settled in _private_. I paid her parents what they _asked_ of me . . . She went on to a college that I didn’t own . . . I never _saw_ her again. Not even by _chance_ . . . But I think of her often— _Still_ —Even _now_.”

In the onset of silence, Cadeau huddled close; nestling into the pliable brawn of his bedmate’s chest.

“Sounds like you were _in love_ with her . . . Do you remember her _name—?”_

“Laurelie Whittle. _Beautiful_ as her name . . . But _‘just Laurel’_ , she told me . . . _‘Just Laurel.’_ ”


	4. The Greatest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lingered before the breadth of the mirror, eying himself through precipitation upon gibbous frames.

Who could have known that come Monday morning, they’d see rainclouds over the Country Club?

The storms had been uncharacteristically treacherous, though Asterion’s summons to orientation endured.

The attendants arrived in a bit of a bluster, placing their umbrellas into drying stations before closing them into available lockers.

All save for _one_ —having slept-in that morning—who’d left his hotel in a scampering rush; now standing drenched to the bone in the entryway, under the critical eye of his colleagues.

“Well look at it _this_ way, you got a free _shower!_ ” wheezed a bypassing Goblin with mirth on his lips.

“You can’t say the place doesn’t have decent water pressure!” jested a Sprite as he sloshed his way into the men’s room.

He lingered before the breadth of the mirror, eying himself through precipitation upon gibbous frames . . .

And therein came the laughter; the mercurial sound of it filling the restroom as he reached for a fistful of disposable towels, endeavoring to absorb what he could of the deluge he’d carried along with him.

“Keep it _together_ , Wil,” he told his reflection, permitting himself one last rueful chuckle before stepping back out and into the lobby—

“ **Hey**! _Watch_ it, buddy!” groused an outlying Gnome, glowering up from beneath his cap.

“ _Oh!_ My apologies—!”

“You can take your _apology_ and **shove** it, man! You _High Elves_ all think you’re _above_ lookin’ out for us little guys—!”

“Does my left eye _deceive_ me, or has young Wilden Lightfoot _finally_ decided to join us,” bellowed a jubilant voice from behind them, luring each man’s gaze to the source.

“ _Miklaus!_ I see you’ve already _met_ our newest associate! Have you managed to give him the old Woodvale welcome?” Asterion chuckled, tipping his crown as he eyed his subordinates; both of whom glanced to each other uneasily.

“He _has!_ ” Wilden feigned with a quirk of his brows, presenting the slighter his kindliest smile. “In _fact_ , he was just _generously_ reminding me to watch my step, since the floors are still slick from the foot traffic.”

The slightest among them allowed his tension to wane, meekly addressing the lumbering hybrid, whose countenance had given way to neutrality.

“ _Yeah_ —That’s—He’s _right_ , Mr. Aux-Gernons,” the halfling concurred, easing himself from between his collaborators. “Better go find the _punch_ , before the _punch_ finds my _wife_ ,” he excused with a cordial nod.

For a moment, Asterion merely watched after him, silence dimming his jovial character—

“Pardon the _mess_ , sir,” Wilden beseeched, gesturing toward his sodden attire. “I left my _umbrella_ somewhere in the Bungalow—”

“Never mind that, my good man,” chimed the Minotaur, coaxing his underling beneath his wing. “ _You_ weren’t the _only_ one! You should have seen _Iandore!_ The poor lad _arrived_ in the arms of the storm!”

Extending a chuckle, the slighter man faltered, Midasian gaze weaving through the attendants.

“ _Iandore_ , huh?” Wilden marveled aloud, trailing alongside his hulking employer. “What a beautiful _name_ . . . Is he a member of staff?”

“ _Heavens_ no!” the bovine imperial tittered, “But, he _is_ our only _ωmega_ . . . The _first_ our academy has seen in a _decade_.”

At this, the lecturer balked once again.

“An _ωmega_ , sir?” the younger inquired, incredulity marring his unruly brows. “A—A _male_ ωmega? . . . What are the _chances?_ ”

“That’s _correct!_ ” the aristocrat beamed with contentment, approaching a series of skirted tables. “A creature _so_ rare and incredibly valuable, we must _all_ do our best to protect him from harm.”

“But, _sir_ —”

“ _Rion_ , lad—!”

“Won’t the _αlphas_ at Woodvale pose a threat to his _safety?_ ” Wilden asked as he sank himself into a chair.

“ _Well_ , we do what we can to _avoid_ such occurrences,” the hybrid began, selecting his own seat. “For _example_ : at _Woodvale_ , our teachers are βetas—This keeps our students from _fearing_ our staff . . . Also, as you’re well aware, αlphas account for less than _twenty_ _percent_ of men in our society,” he paused to adjust his crescent monocle, clearing his throat before pressing on. “ _Then_ of course, the _ωmega_ uniform is a _custom_ design. It _differs_ for the others for the purpose of recognition. _This_ way, our faculty can _easily_ pinpoint an ωmega’s location amongst the other students.”

The slighter man tilted his rain-dampened head, pondering his employer’s proposal.

“That’s all good in _theory_ , but if you don’t mind my _saying_ so, sir . . . Accidents are _still_ likely to _happen_ ,” challenged the educator. “What about _restroom_ breaks? Activities _in_ - _between_ classes? . . . All it takes a few boys—alone and unsupervised—and _bang!_ A pregnant ωmega—”

“Don’t work yourself into a _rut_ , Wil,” chuckled the nobleman, reclining insouciantly. “ _No_ system is _perfect_ , but ours _is_ a time-tested one . . . Since our inception—well before _you_ were born—we’ve never _once_ suffered from any such casualties . . . To be _frank_ , Mr. Lightfoot, you present a strong argument. Accidents _happen_. I would never _deny_ that . . . But when they _do_ —and I’m sure that they _will_ , perhaps someday—We’ll handle each happening with grace and integrity. Just as we’ve _always_ done here at Woodvale.”

With this, he adjusted the weight of his eyepatch; mellow obsidian assessing liquid treasure.

“I _suppose_ ,” Wilden grumbled, envying his elder’s tranquil demeanor—

“ _And so_ , he appears! The _lad_ of the hour! _Hello_ , little love!” Asterion hailed, elevating to offer his seat to a passerby.

“ **Oh**! He- _Hey_ , Mr. Aux-Gernons!” Iandore yelped with a quirk of his ample brows. “A-And _you!_ ” he barked next, projecting a finger. “ _You’re_ the guy from _Bungalow Four!_ ”

The bespectacled gentleman swallowed his anxiousness, golden gaze drifting along the newcomer. As he savored his junior’s ingenuous visage, his mind began rotating things into place.

“ _Wil_ , this is Iandore, our _reigning_ ωmega at Woodvale . . . _Iandore_ , this is Wil, he’ll be your History teacher,” the ivory-crowned sovereign introduced, resting broad hands upon each of their shoulders. “Allow me to fetch us a round of refreshments! You lads get acquainted before I return!”

With this, he was gone, allowing his underlings to bask in reciprocal silence.

“I-It’s good to _see_ you again, man!” Iandore beamed, unveiling the step in his teeth. “So, _uh_ , how’s life at the _Merveille?_ Have you seen _Barley_ there yet?”

“Can’t say that I have— _Listen_ —Why’d you run _out_ on me?” the elder inquired, discontent blighting gilded baritone. “I just wanted to _talk_ to you,” he paused for a swallow, “I-I had no idea if I’d ever _see_ you again . . . But I’m _happy_ to know you’ll be joining my _class_.”

As he spoke, he leaned closer, breathing violet and iris; the scent escalating his pulse—

“ _Yeah_ —I-I—I’m really _sorry_ about that . . . I’m not really the greatest at meeting new people,” Ian stilled his confession for a purse of his lips, “A-And I _smelled_ something on you—I smell it _now_ , too . . . I don’t really know why, but . . . I-I-It scared me, at first.”

Astonishment graced the bearded man’s visage, withdrawing his nearness to examine his student.

“You can . . . _smell_ something on me?” he wondered aloud, pallidity blanching his rugged complexion. “I-If you don’t mind my _asking_ , what is it you _smell?_ ”

At this, the magus teetered his head; contemplating his inquiry, judicious and poised.

“I-It’s a little like— _Sunshine_ . . . At the edge of the water,” he tendered a nod of cerulean curls.

“Kinda makes me feel _happy_ . . . Like, happy and _safe_.”


End file.
